Non-Erotic PoetrySummer, his eveningSummer cirrus pierced by jets
southing, one after another:
Tokyo? Soeul?
A reddening against which
swifts cavort,
reminiscing of Africa.
A jet goes widdershins:
Stockholm? Archangel?
The gull, cruising a meal,
could care less, nor the
rook late for rookery:
the first flash of bat,
a flurry of starlings,
a purple tension
pierced by jets.
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